Tuesday, October 23, 2007

How I Prepared for a Poetry ReadingDomestic Violence Awareness Month, 2007

Crying in bed Was just practice for the tears they shed.

Dodging bullets was a drillfor weaving through a crowdto stand before the one womanI know wants to say somethingbut may not have the feet to walk.

I ate too much then for comfort.I can work the room to dispense some,skipping the cheese and crackers.

Worrying that he would kill us this timeprepared me to take into considerationthe fragile soul who is here somewhere.I look around the room as I speakand I spot her.

She is why I am here,why after the journaling and the therapyand the hunting for a peaceful spotto live out the life I have created thatI came out three times this monthto speak before a crowd,not my favorite Saturday pastime.

She does not write poetryor hides it at home if she does.People think she is ok.She is a great employee.She brings cake to the sick.She laughs like anyone else,but inside there is a crime scenewhere soul murder has taken place.

See right there, the fast swallowing,her eyebrows flicker when I talk about his hands.She won’t fidget, but I see.I know the signs from the inside out.

She is why I am here.My whole life has prepared meto speak to her.Despite it all, I made it here,loud mouth intact, still laughing,thriving in my chosen spot,never afraid to lay my head.It was almost worth it.Today, here, safe and wholeI can see there is more healing to doand it is not mine this time.

The Woman in the Parking Lot After Poetry Therapy

I can’t say the things you say,but they are true for me.

I had an un…The words catch in her throat.

I had an uncle, too.I don’t know how you do it.Don’t stop, we need you.

And bright tears spillout of her onto the asphalt.

Can I hug you?

Always ask if they don’t.Always ask.Because they were tampered with,bothered, touched, hurt,all the euphemisms for soul murder,so ask first.

And I do hug her and she smells like hope and fear,feels like promise and despair.

She will be skittish now.She has said what she has notto anyone else alive.(three of us in this secret now)I will be her first.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Jo said she was sorry, that her words meant nothing. I have lived for weeks on the words of someone who cares. Words mean everything. Thanks, Jo.

Words for Us Girls

Whisper I love you Say I adore the way your mouth looksCome here, beautiful

Here, let me get thatYou have waited long enoughYou deserve betterI am so glad I am hereYou make me feel safeHold meIt's a girlShe's perfectI just had to tell someoneI just had to tell youThanksYou're welcomePraise GOD!Thanks for saying it out loudIt happened to me and I can't say itout loudI am not going anywhereYou will get betterYou look so happyYou smile all the time nowEven when you cry, you look beautifulThere, thereI've got you...I've got you.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

What did you think when I told youthat he pushed aside my child's size 4 underwearin order to plunge his man's size 9 hand into me?

Were you humming to yourself,distracted by the ingredients tosome cake you were about to bake?

How long did you study on the factsbefore you pushed them to the backof your mind,"I wish I didn't know that."

Did you think I would relent some dayand allow you to talk of him in chipper voiceas my daughter and I sat at your tableeating bowls of ice cream?

And when she had grown to a womanand you did speak of him in pretty tones,did you know she would shake her headand hold me as I cried,apologizing to me as thoughshe were the mommy?

How many miles have you traveled with himin the same car on trips to see relativeswhose own little girls were in danger of hisspecial kind of love?

What in the hell were you thinking?

Did the years you spent letting Daddyrain terror down on our headsinure you to the pain in my gutsas I told you your brother is a child molester?

Because for the life of me,for the very sanity of me,I cannot imagine doing the same.

I want to be your little girl,but you make it difficultto shell peas on your porchor make coffee in your kitchenknowing you may one day go too farand, against my one rule,bring him face to face with me.

I have tummy aches at holidaysknowing you will let slip bits of informationabout himlike other mothers drop hintsabout presents.

So instead of the safety of your armsI seek the voice of those who havetheir own Uncle Mikeor have struggled under a gagas a stranger has laid them barebecause when I listen, it goes like this...

First, I say I am sorry that this has happened.

Then I tell her that she didn't deserve it,no matter what,no matter where,no matter who.

And I smile a little,because it is not funny,but no one deserves to see a frowning facewhen they tell you about their rape.

I hold out my hand sometimesfor the ones who aren't about to jumpout of their skins.Sometimes they take it.

I listen. I murmur soft words to them.

I don't bawl my eyes out,because it is not about me,but I don't try to hide the tearsthat gather in the corners of my eyes.

I tell them the process is slowor fast.That she will heal and be fineor have lingering fear.

I make no promises I am not ready to keep.

I play by her rules.It gives her backthe controlsome bastardsnatched.

When I am the advocate for a victim,she need never wonder if I will waituntil she is distractedto offer her a second helping of paininstead of a tissue.

Thursday, June 14, 2007

The color could be covered, but the swelling could not. She is a lumpy woman; bumps on her head and sags at her hips, the one from him directly, the other from him through his kids. His kids, they are, even without his taglines on them. She is the page for his byline. Some writer, he, inscribing lines across her cheekbones. His generous use of punctuation leaves the reader with no doubt as to where the limits lay.

He loved her thoroughly yesterday, declaring it so in a long hail of sonnets ended with the most exquisite haiku. Something about “tiny pearl teeth”, she just can’t remember now exactly what. That happens more now. His words escape her mind. She drifts about, his muse. It is only when she undresses that she is able to read his love notes. Down her arm, inner thigh, circling umbilicus. The special poem he inscribed deep, deep inside where the pink of her bears witness to his first valentine. He cut it out himself with the knife he keeps in his right front pocket.

Sunday, May 06, 2007

Some men are just meandaughterfuckerspleased as punch to gouge out holeswhere there should be none,at least not yet.

And yet, for some reason,Little Princess is expectedto burp politely, behind her hand,never let the gas escape, (Cry Rape!)“Oh, excuse me, so sorry!”

Do not become, my dear,so destroyed in your soulthat you will spread your legsand point, to that spot, (Crotch Rot!)“Ouch, it hurts me.”

Young Ladies must cross their legsat the ankles and tuck them, (Fuck Them!)ever-so-politely to the sidebetter so to hidethe oozing pain that threatens topuddle in plain sight.

Him, if you care to convict,we will feed and waterand send to schooland give recreation, (Abomination!)and release, fouler than any fart,to fuck her again by proxy.

Just because he used the same partsthat make love to your darling,and grow children for your garden,does not make his act sex.Talking about what he did is notlike ending prayers with “Shit”instead of AMEN.

OhHellNo!

The sacrilege has been doneby that dirty daughterfucker,gentle nights sacrificedon the altar of his prick.

So do not tell me I may not,in polite company,speak of rapeand incestand pornographyand the thousand horrors visitedupon a thousand little girls (andboys, them too,scionfuckers making thisan equal opportunity tragedy)don’t you dare.

I am not shutting up!

And upon the tiny vaginasripped open way too soon,by the blood smeared sheets,baptized with the tears of a thousand nights,knife in hand if necessary,to cut out the tongueof anyone who daresto silence her and her and all the hers (andhims, I don’t forget)I do solemnly swearI will listen to the quiet words,whispered into my ear,as she faces the other way,because she has been toldgood girls don’t say those things (andbig boys don’t cry, now, Son)

Friday, March 30, 2007

You have my old tennis racquet, sleep in my Bob Seger t-shirts.There are light spots on the wallpaper where two beards and a Beard were smashed by Pumpkins.

I preferred a magic, gauzy coverlet from India to your layer cake of quilt, blanket, sheet, second blanket. What makes you so chilly?

Is it the hand that reached out to lift away your layers? Do old night demons still bedevil you?

I'm sorry to have left you moving on as I did to recline on slick couches coming finally to rest on my own mattress. I can even tear the tag.

I sleep now in a room of comfort. Green-painted walls for serenity-- I applied every drop myself to know each flaw in the surface.

Not alone, my man rests easy along side.My dog sleeps with one eye open, so I never have to.No one slips beneath my covers now-- just my cat, Zelda.She must be chilly, like you.

Leave the room, kiddo. It's so bleak in there.I can't come back and drag you out-- Oh, I would.The demon is now long gone no more need for the racquet.You have outgrown those t-shirts. Why do you stay?